What troubles the heart
by MLaw
Summary: Illya Kuryakin returns a troubled man from a prolonged mission, and Napoleon is determined to find out why and help him. warning: very minor reference to rape and murder(not graphic) some language. This is more emotional story than I've written in a long time. Pre-saga


It had been six months to the day since Napoleon had seen or spoken to his friend and partner. Illya had been sent on a mission by the Old Man, with a complete communications blackout except when Kuryakin would check in with scheduled coded messages.

He'd infiltrated a crime ring and was deep undercover, that's all Solo knew. Even his position as CEA didn't afford him details on this one, and none of his trusted sources within headquarters were able to tell him a word about Illya and his assignment…not even Lisa Rogers would spill the beans.

Alexander Waverly at least let him know when the Russian had checked in, getting word to the American that his partner was all right. Not much, but it was better than nothing.

Then out of the blue, on a particularly cold day in New York, Illya Kuryakin returned. Word spread quickly as the Russian, looking thin and drawn, silently made his way to Waverly's conference room to file his report.

Once that task had been completed, it was up to Medical for a quick check up.

Napoleon arrived at headquarters, immediately being told by Wanda that Illya was back; prompting him to head to Waverly's office.

.

"Oh yes...quite Mr. Solo. You just missed him and should find him in Medical," the CCO said, looking up from his console. He seemed distracted, and was sucking on the mouthpiece of his pipe though it was unlit.

"He's not injured is he sir?"

"No no old boy, just a post mission check up. He was tired and not quite himself...a little R&R is in order I think. Now if there's nothing pressing Mr. Solo, I'm in the middle of preparing for a briefing."

"Yes sir, sorry to bother you." Napoleon backed out the doors as they opened, spinning on his heel and heading down the corridor at a quick pace, taking the elevator up to the Medical wing. There he inquired about his partner to the nurse on duty.

She looked up from her paperwork, preoccupied. "Illya? Sorry, you just missed him."

"Any idea where he was heading?"

"He mumbled only one word...I think it was Odessa, who ever that is? Are we still on for our date tonight Napoleon?"

Solo was at a bit of a loss. Why hadn't Illya tried to find him. That wasn't like the Russian at all."

"We may have to postpone our date Sally. Last minute assignment," he lied. "Did Illya pass his physical?"

"With flying colors, "the nurse smiled."Though Doctor Green said Illya had lost a few pounds and needed a B12 shot as he was a little run down. He was none the worse for wear, though he did seemed sort of distant."

Napoleon checked out of headquarters, heading to his car parked across the street from Del Floria's; he pulled out his communicator. "Open channel F-Kuryakin."

There was only static. Another oddity, Illya not answering a call.

"Odessa," he said out loud. That could mean only one thing, a place, not a person. It was a restaurant in Brighton Beach that Illya frequented, more often when the Russian was in one of his morose moods. He'd been deep undercover, and those sort of roles took their toll on both of them. He could understand Illya being a bit out of it after such a long assignment.

He was a method actor of sorts, and let himself become absorbed completely in a role when masquerading in one of these indefinite charades. It took him time to free himself of that character, and Napoleon wondered what exactly the role had been.

A crime ring...drugs, no doubt murder was involved, extortion, sex. Who knew what Illya had to do to maintain his cover. Though his partner was a man of morals, always conducting himself as a gentleman, he had a bloodthirsty side as well, cultivated by his Soviet masters and he could call upon that when he needed it.

What Solo knew about his partners mysterious past was that it was a life of suffering and deprivation. Who knew what horrors the man really witnessed as a child during the war.

Illya had let slip once about a camp...one could only assume a concentration camp, but when Napoleon dug further trying to get more, Illya clammed up or simply denied he'd ever said a word about it.

One thing about Illya Kuryakin was that he was a masterful liar. Napoleon could never really tell when the man was telling the truth. His partner could state a fact, convince him of its validity and in the next breath say the complete opposite of what he'd just stated and convince the American that was the honest truth...when in fact it was a bold faced lie.

.

Napoleon navigated into traffic, heading out to the FDR Drive, through the Battery Tunnel and after hitting a little traffic, twenty-five minutes later he was parked across the street from the Odessa Restaurant.

He hesitated, thinking that he perhaps was intruding. It was obvious Illya didn't want to see him, or really anyone else at headquarters for that matter but he figured they were partners, and best of friends. He needed to make sure his buddy was all right.

Napoleon crossed the street, opening the door to the usually cheery restaurant. He scanned the place, searching for his friend. The hostess, a heavy set Russian woman recognized him and pointed to a booth in the back.

"He is in a black mood," she whispered, warning the American. She took his overcoat, hanging it up for him. "He has a bottle of vodka there, should I bring you glass?"

"Scotch if you please, and spacibo."

Napoleon gingerly walked to the table, standing next to it. Illya never looked up, and sat there staring at his half-empty glass….or was it half-full?"

"Excuse me but is this seat taken?"

"What are you doing here?" Kurykin snapped, downing what remained of his drink and lifted the bottle with an unsteady hand, pouring himself another glassful.

"Looking for you. You're a hard fellow to track down tovarisch. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Napoleon, if I wanted to be seen I would have availed myself to you."

"Well excuse me for caring."

"Sorry. I am not fit company right now."

"Like I haven't seen you that way before? Napoleon slipped into the bench opposite his partner as the waitress brought over a bottle of scotch and a glass. They remembered he liked it neat…"It was that bad this time?"

Illya nodded, taking a sip of his drink.

"Can you talk to me about it, or is it still classified?"

"No longer. The mission was fulfilled and a_ Vory v zakone_ crime operation was taken down. It was a joint effort with your FBI." *

"They didn't give you any guff?" Solo was surprised at hearing that news as there wasn't any love lost betweem the FBI or the CIA when it came to the Soviet representative to U.N.C.L.E.

"No for once they did not...they could not as I was their inside man. They could not have this goup of Vor without me."

"So what happened that's bugging you? You should be happy you helped take down some bad guys."

"Yes the end result was positive of course, but there were things I had to do to ingratiate myself to them...things that are weighing heavily on my heart."

"Like what?" Napoleon leaned forward on his elbows, holding his glass in his hand.

"I was an enforcer at first, and had to inflict grievous injury on a number of people, innocent people who were foolish enough to have dealings with the Vor, though their foolishness did not deserve to be the victim of violence."

"You didn't have to kill any of them did you?"

"No...but there was a young girl." Illya's hand shook as he poured yet another glassful of vodka." I was forced to, _abordazh_..."

_"Board_? Illya I don't understand."

"Sorry that is Russian slang." He hesitated again. "I was foreced to _iznasilovat' yeye_ to rape her." _He couldn't bring himself to say it in English. "Napoleon, she could not have been any older than sixteen and was the daughter of one of the men from whom the Vor had been extorting money. He could no longer pay, so they grabbed the girl. I was orderd to...well, they said if I did not do it, then they would just go ahead and kill her and send her body back to her father. They said better to send her back to him despoiled rather than dead. I had no choice...I could not let them kill her."

Illya's eyes glazed over. "I whispered to her that I was sorry, and told her to take her mind someplace else, to think of something happy...but she cried. After I was finished with her...they took a knife to her and...and evicerated her like Jack the Ripper. They lied...they lied! _Bozhe moy,_ what I did to her thinking it would save her life and still those animals killed her! Her eyes, all I can see is the look of terror in her eyes staring at me..." Illya stopped talking, and swallowed more vodka.

Napoleon downed his drink in one gulp. "Shit," he cursed. "Illya, losing yourself in a bottle isn't going to help you get over what happened. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but maybe you need to speak to someone in Psych."

Before Solo could blink, Illya stood, throwing a right cross and hitting his partner in the chin, sending his head hitting against the back of the wooden bench.

Napoleon stood up, cradling his jaw in his hand and contemplated retaliating, but stopped himself.

"I'm going to let that slide chum, you're not yourself."

_"Khuy tebe!" _Illya let go the F-bomb in Russian. "Why should I be permitted to 'get over it'? I have done a terrible thing."

"My my, such language _tovarisch_ and here in a family restaurant. I think it's time you go home buddy boy and sleep it off. You haven't given yourself any time to reacclimate after getting back."

"Napoleon leave me the fu...just leave me be please?"

"Not a chance, not this time."

Illya grabbed his bottle of vodka and stormed out of the restaurant, quickly disappearing into the night.

"Vait vait, who pay bill?" The waitress called.

By the time Napoleon took care of the tab and made it to the door, there was no sign of his partner. He hopped into his car, heading east along Brighton Beach Avenue, scouring the sidewalks for a sign of the drunken Russian. Illya knew the place like the back of his hand; this was a little piece of home for him. There were so many spots he could disappear to if he really didn't want to be found.

Napoleon finally parked the car as he neared Brighton/14th Street, and made his way toward the boardwalk, having a sneaking suspicion Illya was headed towards there, in spite of the cold.

When he reached it, Napoleon climbed the steps, looking left and right but not seeing any figure in the light of the street lamps.

He walked closer to the beach side, leaning on the railing as he continued to scan the darkness for his partner. There he spotted Illya silhoutted against the full moon, standing at the waters edge with the bottle of vodka still in his hand.

Napoleon climbed through the railing, lowering himself to the sand, heading straight for the Russian.

"It's a little cold for a swim isn't it _tovarisch?_"

Illya dropped to one knee, leaning forward with his free hand and steadying himself as he finally sat; the cold salt water creeping closer to him.

"For pity's sake Napoleon, leave me be?" He finally let out a sob.

"Never going to happen _moy drug_. We're in this together and your pain is my pain. I'll help you if you let me?"

"How can you helllp me? How can you undo what I did to child...what they did, what I le-let them do to her...all forssssake of my fucking cover and the missssion? Tell me, what the fffuck can you do? I am suppose' to save innocents, not raaape them and let them be murrrdered!"

Napoleon knelt next to him, wrapping his arms around his friend and holding him. "All I can do is hang on to you buddy boy. I can't make it go away, I'm sorry. You're the only one who can do that….let it go."

Illya began to sob, and Solo held him for the longest time. When he finally fell silent, Napoleon took the almost empty bottle from his hand and tossed it into the water.

"Come on my friend, it's time to go home."

Illya nodded, letting his partner help him to his feet. Napoleon didn't let go, keeping the Russian upright the entire trek to the car and upon reaching it he laid his partner down in the back seat.

Napoleon headed to the Belt Parkway, and home to Midtown, a blessedly short drive as this time of night traffic was light.

Illya was snoring heavily when Solo lifted him to his feet with a grunt.

"Nyeeeeet,"he protested, stumbling up the stairs beside the American. There were a couple of times they staggered backwards, retreating a few steps down as they made their way up to the third floor, and Illya's apartment. Napoleon would have preferred his place but one more flight of stairs wasn't worth the effort.

He leaned Illya against the wall beside the door, pulling out his key.

"Stay," he ordered, pointing a finger in the Russian's face.

"Vat am I…_sobaka._ You order me like one?"

"Oh shut up, you're not a dog, you're drunk. Just stay put while I get your door open and do the alarm. You'll be snug in your own bed in a few minutes."

"Am not drunk. No sef respectin'.._.Russkiy p'yanyy na vodku."_

"So you've told me before chum, but sorry you're definitely drunk."

"Weeeeell, maybe just a teensy bit," Illya gestured with his fingers.

"Yeah just a teensy weensy bit, right.'

Napoleon's words fell on deaf ears as he watched Illya start to slide down the wall in slow motion.

"Oh no you don't buddy boy," he grabbed him as he opened the door, quickly entering the alarm code into the keypad. Solo kicked the door closed behind them, turning the lock. He'd set the alarm once he had Illya in his bed.

He practically dragged the man across the livingroom floor into the bedroom, letting him flop on the unmade bed. Napoleon undid the laces on Illya's shoes pulling them off along with his socks. Next came the trousers and finally the suit jacket and lastly his tie and shirt, leaving him in his undershirt and shorts.

After a little manuevering he repostioned Illya to the side of the bed, enabling him to cover the man with a blanket. He sighed, relieved that was at least done.

Solo walked out to the livingroom, setting the alarm as he decided it was best he stay here, just in case Illya woke up. Who knew what state of mind he'd still be in.

He went into the kitchen, making a small pot of coffee and finding a half a loaf of pumpernickel in the bread box; he made a couple of slices of toast with jam for himself. Illya was notorious for not keeping much food in his place, and Napoleon reminded himself to go upstairs to his apartment in the morning to get some eggs and sausages to make for breakfast...no, not sausages. They were too greasy for a vodka-filled stomach. Pancakes...he'd make Illya some good old fashioned stick-to-your-ribs flap jacks.

Napoleon grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and settled himself on Illya's lumpy green sofa...he kept forgetting about that and positioned a few extra pillows. It suddenly dawned on him that he'd not seen or heard from Illya's cat, and wondered where it was.

The food bowl and water dish weren't on the kitchen floor come to think of it. Given the Russian had been away for so long, he probably asked one of the girls in the secretarial pool to watch after the little beast. If they couldn't mother Illya, his cat was the next best thing. Napoleon chuckled. Whoever volunteered probably figured they might get a date out of the deal...not.

He finished his coffee and toast, wrapping his blanket around him, amd settled in for the night.

When Napoleon woke in the morning, the sun was shining brightly through the livingroom window. He stretched, looking at his wristwatch. It was nine o'clock, nothing to worry about as it was Sunday and he was off-duty.

The blessed silence was broken by the sounds of wretching coming from the bathroom, that could only mean one thing.

He got up, standing outside the door and gently knocked. "You okay Illya?"

There was no sound at first, until he heard the toilet flush and water running.

The Russian finally opened the door, a toothbrush in his mouth and looking like death warmed over.

"Do I look all right?"

"I've seen you looking better. Food?"

"Maybe."

"I'll be right back."

Twenty minutes later Napoleon reappeared, having taken a quick shower and changed to a polo shirt and casual trousers. He carried the ingrediets he needed to make the pancakes, and he brought the eggs and sausages anyway. The Russian generally had a cast iron stomach and could eat a horse if he was hungry enough.

Illya was in the shower and emerged wearing his tattered bathrobe just as Napoleon appeared.

"Remind me to buy you a new robe for Christmas chum."

"There is nothing wrong with this...it has plenty of life left in it."

"Yeah, if your a hobo," the American snickered.

After breakfast was made and eaten, Napoleon looked his partner in the eye.

"You were in a pretty bad way last night. How are you feeling today...the same or better?"

"I still have my regrets over what transpired during my mission. I suppose there is a part of me that will never forgive myself for it, that being said...it is something I must learn to live with. We all do things we are not proud of in this business, do we not?"

"I couldn't have said it any bettery _tovarisch_. We all carry our burdens, our secrets if you will. Me...I'll have to take it up with my Maker when the day comes I meet Him. I'd like to think that God has a special place of forgiveness in His Heart for spies like us who do are jobs for the greater good. It's a job that has to be done by someone doesn't it?"

"You know my feelings on there being a higher power my friend. I will agree with you that we all have our burdens to bear and leave it at that." He took a gulp from his mug of tea. "Thank you Napoleon for not taking no for an answer. I was glad to have someone...no you, to hold onto in my hour of need."

"Hey that's what friends are for." Napoleon smiled, raising his coffee mug. "To friendship...our friendship."

Illya clinked his mug against his partner's. "I will drink to that." He suddenly winced at his choice of words. "To our friendship, and brotherhood."

"Amen to that _moy drug,_" this time Napoleon grinned.

**. **

* Vory V Zakone~ professional criminals who enjoy an elite position within the Russian organized crime environment.


End file.
